Uncle Tang heard the commotion and came over. When he saw Gungun and Dandan like that, he knew right away that the two little rascals had crawled into the stoves.
He let out a helpless sigh.
Isn't the bed comfortable enough to sleep in?
Last time, Fang Zichen had said to buy chains to tie them down, and Uncle Tang had stopped him, saying that would look terrible. Now he really shouldn't have interfered.
But watching Gungun and Dandan get spanked and scolded by Zhao Ger, Uncle Tang couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for them.
They were still little, after all, and full of energy—what did they know? If someone was around, they were good as gold, playing by themselves without crying or making a fuss. But when no one was around, they'd wander off to explore every corner. These past few days, with Zhao Ger and Fang Zichen away, the little ones had been looking for them even more frantically—and in their determined searching, they'd managed to get themselves lost as well.
In the village, people used dried loofahs to wash dishes. When the loofah was young and tender, it made the freshest soup with eggs; when it was old, it could be used to scrub pots and bowls. Every household kept a few. Zhao Ger pulled two down from the roof beam, and he and Uncle Tang took the children to wash them off. They had barely finished cleaning them when someone called out from outside.
It was the village chief.
Last time, Zhao Ger had gone to the fields to spread fertilizer. A few days later, he went to check, and the rice seedlings were all growing well—no different from the neighbors' fields, with no yellowing or burnt leaves.
Zhao Ger had come back, and afterward, he'd been too busy. It wasn't until after dinner that he finally had some free time. He'd wanted to take an oil lamp and go check the fields at night—he couldn't rest easy without seeing them. But Fang Zichen had stopped him, saying, "Why check so obsessively? If you have that much time, why not spend it looking at me instead? The field is right there. If you check it every day, it'll grow the same as if you don't. It's not like staring at it more will make it grow better."
Zhao Ger thought that made sense, and he really was too tied up to go anyway. So he'd told the village chief to keep an eye on things—if the water level got too low, or if heavy rain caused the fields to flood, he asked the village chief to please drain some of the water out.
But the villagers went to check every single day.
Could fertilizer really produce four or five dan of grain per mu. A scholar who had never farmed a single day in his life—what could he possibly know about it. They had to see the results with their own eyes. So whenever they went to drain their own fields, they'd take a detour past the village chief's three plots to have a look.
At first, there was nothing special. But after seven or eight days, the villagers began to notice differences.
Those three plots were small. When the village chief had transplanted the seedlings, he'd done the larger fields first. After the seedlings were moved to new soil, they'd grow poorly for the first ten days or so—leaves narrow and small, with a slight yellowing. It would take at least half a month for the roots to take hold properly before they'd turn green and start putting out new growth.
The village chief's fields had been planted late, so logically they should have been growing slower than the others. But now, those plots—the rice seedlings had grown remarkably tall. Each stalk was big and robust, leaving the neighboring seedlings in the dust.
The villagers were amazed. They went home and talked about it, and the next day, young and old alike came running over to see.
They really did look excellent.
But could it really be the fertilizer at work?
It was still too early to say for sure, because some rice plants grew tall but didn't produce any grain. They'd been farming for decades—they'd harvested plenty of rice and had seen this many times before.
Even with corn grown in dry fields, the same thing often happened: the stalks grew tall and impressive, but the ears they produced were sparse and scraggly compared to shorter plants—like an old woman's teeth, one kernel here, one there.
By now, a lot of weeds had grown in the fields, and the village chief didn't dare touch them without asking. So he came over to consult Zhao Ger.
Zhao Ger said he understood.
The next day, he prepared to go into the fields. Fang Zichen followed behind him, munching on a cucumber. They were still a good distance from the fields when Zhao Ger spotted their rice paddies.
"Husband," Zhao Ger called out in surprise, "our rice has grown so tall!"
And it truly had—tall, lush, and deep green, packed so densely together that it stood out completely from the neighboring fields.
There were already people in the fields weeding, carrying bamboo baskets on their backs. They'd pull up the weeds and toss them into the baskets, and when they were full, they'd dump them onto the ridge between the paddies.
Pulled weeds could not be left in the water, because with all that moisture, they would not die—they would re-root in the mud overnight. They had to be laid on the ridge to dry in the sun.
For generations, this was how everyone did it. So when the villagers saw that Zhao Ger hadn't brought a basket or a sickle, and that instead of tossing the pulled weeds onto the ridge, he was bundling them up and stomping them straight into the mud—they couldn't help but wonder:
Can this fulang even know how to farm?
Why is he doing it like that?
Zhao Ger was just following Fang Zichen's instructions. Stomp them into the mud—they'd rot and turn into organic fertilizer.
Some well-meaning neighbor called out, advising against it: "You can't do that! Don't be lazy—you have to throw those weeds out, or they won't die!"
Won't they die? That's ridiculous.
If they're stomped deep into the mud, they can't get any sunlight or air—how could they possibly stay alive? Unless those weeds have turned into spirits or something!
Zhao Ger hadn't done it this way before either—he used to pull them out and toss them on the path. But Fang Zichen had sworn up and down that even though he'd never farmed, this method worked, and Zhao Ger should trust him.
When the others saw they wouldn't listen, they just shook their heads and said no more.
The three plots were small, so Zhao Ger could handle them on his own. Fang Zichen wanted to help, but there were too many bugs in the muddy fields. The last time he'd caught frogs, he'd been so focused on the frogs that he hadn't paid much attention—until he spotted a fat, fleshy worm clinging to the back of his hand. He nearly fainted right there in the field. If Guaizai hadn't been around, he would have screamed louder than a pig being slaughtered.
As for the field frogs—they were delicious, but they never went back to catch them again. First, because they didn't dare break the law a second time; second, because Fang Zichen was too scared.
Now he couldn't even help in the fields. But just being there—able to turn his head and see Fang Zichen at any moment—made Zhao Ger happy, filling his heart with warmth. Halfway through, Xiao Feng also came. The two gers stomped around in the field, seeming to enjoy themselves.
Zhao Ger was pulling weeds near the edge of the ridge when a big green worm dropped off a blade of grass and floated on the murky water, curling and writhing. Fang Zichen's scalp tingled with disgust—he instinctively stepped back. But Zhao Ger wasn't scared in the slightest. He lifted his foot, brought it down hard, and stomped the worm deep into the mud, off to report to the underworld. He looked up at Fang Zichen with a smug grin.
Fang Zichen: "......"
That was practically a challenge.
His masculine pride had been bruised. Tonight, he'd have to put Zhao Ger in his place—or he'd become absolutely lawless.
After weeding, Zhao Ger didn't go back to the fields. But it seemed to have become a habit: the villagers came every single day to check on the village chief's plots. They noticed that the weeds Zhao Ger had stomped into the mud really hadn't grown back. They clicked their tongues in amazement. Later, when the rice panicles emerged and grains began to form, everyone came back to have another look—and oh my, oh my, this was something else entirely.
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